


It's Never Too Late

by sparksfly7



Series: (not) too late [2]
Category: Football RPF
Genre: M/M, Reunions, Years Later
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-07-06
Updated: 2014-07-14
Packaged: 2018-02-07 15:49:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,943
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1904793
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sparksfly7/pseuds/sparksfly7
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>David isn’t sure whose idea it is, to get together and watch the tournament they won twelve years ago – probably Pepe’s, God knows age hasn’t dulled his social butterfly tendencies – but as he sees all the familiar yet different faces around him, he feels...</p><p>Nostalgia, he supposes, would be a good word. Here he is, forty years old, long-retired, not too old but definitely aged, sitting in a room steeped with memories, with old friends and colleagues who are reminders of past glory and an era of football that many consider unmatched.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. eight years of weight

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into 中文 available: [It's Never Too Late中译版](https://archiveofourown.org/works/2019357) by [edith7raspberry](https://archiveofourown.org/users/edith7raspberry/pseuds/edith7raspberry)



> Oops forgot to say this is the sequel to [Too Little, Too Late](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1899687). Please read that first.
> 
> I just have to get this out before my muse high tails it out of here like she always does. I've never written time-skip fic, and it shows.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He loved Valencia, but not in the way Iker loves Real Madrid, or Xavi loves Barcelona. He loved Barcelona too, in a different way (it was easy to love Barcelona, easy to love a team full of success and trophies, a team that didn’t know what it was like to fight for everything because that was the only way you got anywhere); he was grateful to Atlético (louder and dirtier and more familiar than Barcelona); he enjoyed New York a surprising amount (he could never get over the fact that they played soccer, not football, though).
> 
> Maybe it was better that way; it made it easier to leave.

David isn’t sure whose idea it is, to get together and watch the tournament they won twelve years ago – probably Pepe’s, God knows age hasn’t dulled his social butterfly tendencies – but as he sees all the familiar yet different faces around him, he feels...

Nostalgia, he supposes, would be a good word. Here he is, forty years old, long-retired, not too old but definitely aged, sitting in a room steeped with memories, with old friends and colleagues who are reminders of past glory and an era of football that many consider unmatched.

“It’s strange, isn’t it?” Iker, sitting next to him, says. He’s the director of football at Real Madrid now, considering a coaching role – a future that David always foresaw for him. You could take Iker out of Real Madrid, but you couldn’t take Real Madrid out of Iker. It was in his blood, practically, the way blaugrana bled in Xavi’s veins.

It wasn’t like that for him, not really. He loved Valencia, but not in the way Iker loves Real Madrid, or Xavi loves Barcelona. He loved Barcelona too, in a different way (it was easy to love Barcelona, easy to love a team full of success and trophies, a team that didn’t know what it was like to fight for everything because that was the only way you got anywhere); he was grateful to Atlético (louder and dirtier and more familiar than Barcelona); he enjoyed New York a surprising amount (he could never get over the fact that they played soccer, not football, though).

Maybe it was better that way; it made it easier to leave.

He suddenly registers a hand waving in front of his face. “Earth to David?” Iker says, sounding amused.

“Oh, what did you – yeah.” He remembers now. “Yeah, it’s strange.”

“What have you been up to? I haven’t heard from you in years.”

“This and that,” David replies. He isn’t trying to be vague; he just hasn’t done much. The past couple of years for him have been very quiet. “I would ask about your life, but you’re still in the news. I heard you’re taking over the Blanco kids next year.”

“Yeah.” Iker is silent for a moment. “I had some other offers, actually, but—”

“You were never going anywhere else,” David finishes. “I know you, Iker. There’s only ever been one club for you.”

Iker smiles. “How about you? Ever thought about coaching?”

“I’ve thought about it, but...I don’t think it’s for me.”

Iker doesn’t look surprised or unsurprised. “Why not?”

“I’d probably just yell at them half the time.” David’s mouth quirks up. “You know I’m not exactly a patient person.”

Iker chuckles. “You give yourself too little credit.”

David gives a non-committal shrug. “I’ve gotten used to only taking care of myself. Throw two dozen brats into the mix? No thanks.”

“You’re enjoying the bachelor life then?” Iker asks lightly.

David gives him a look. “Yes, I’m still single, if that’s what you’re asking.”

Iker shrugs, smiles a little. His smile still looks the same, just with a few more lines. He’s aged well, hairline aside. David’s kept all his hair, thankfully, but he has more silver at the temples than he would like.

“How are Sara and the kids?”

“They’re good.” Iker’s face lights up in a way typical of a parent. “Martín still sleeps with his toy football. Lana has just discovered the joy of crayons. I’ve never seen my house so colourful.”

David laughs. “Kids will be kids.”

Iker studies him. “Did you ever want any?”

“Did you not hear my brat talk earlier?”

“I heard it,” Iker says. “I just—”

David doesn’t get to find out the end of that sentence, as Pepe plops himself between them, almost toppling over both their chairs. In contrast to Iker, Pepe has more hair than David’s ever seen on him.

“Hey, are you two exchanging secrets?” Pepe asks with a broad grin. “You have to catch me up on what I missed.”

David snorts. “Nice hair transplant.”

“I assure you, my friend.” Pepe runs his hand over his hair. “This is all natural. I tried this herbal supplement – works wonders, I tell you.”

“Iker, did you hear that?” David asks, earning him a glare from Iker.

“Iker, man, I’m telling you.” Pepe leans in conspiratorially. “It’s great, it’s made from berries and roots or something, I have a lot if you want any.”

“I think you should go for it, Iker,” David pipes in.

“Go for what?” a quiet voice asks. David looks up, and—

Fernando is the tannest that David’s ever seen him. Even his freckles look lighter. He’s blonde again, all tousled bangs and abyss eyes. It’s astonishing how little he’s aged, how little he’s changed, in the past eight years.

“I’m trying to help Iker with his hair,” Pepe says, “but he’s being stubborn.”

“It’s my hair and my choice,” Iker protests.

Fernando smiles. “That’s true.”

“You don’t get to give advice about hair,” Pepe says. “Look at what you’ve put yours through during the years.”

Fernando just rolls his eyes. He has this way of doing it that looks – David can’t describe it, it’s just such a Fernando thing. Some things never change, it appears.

“Seriously, all that bleach will come back to haunt you,” Pepe says solemnly. “Do you want to have hair when you’re old?”

“I’m already old,” Fernando says placidly.

“You’re the youngest one here,” Iker points out. “If you’re old, what does that make all of us?”

Fernando smiles again. Turns his gaze on David. “You’ve given up on hair gel, I see.”

“I’m forty, there’s not much point for it.”

Fernando arches his eyebrows. “I didn’t know there was an age limit for hair gel.”

“There’s no age limit for sunscreen either, you know. You look like you’ve been living at the beach.”

“I like sun,” Fernando says simply. He rolls up his sleeve; even his arms are covered with freckles. “It doesn’t like me though.”

“They invented sunscreen for a reason.”

“I thought it was to prevent skin cancer.”

“That too,” David acquiesces, and Fernando laughs. His eyes crinkle up at the corners; maybe those lines are from the sun too. He doesn’t look old though, Fernando, especially when he smiles. He still looks like a boy then. David can imagine him having a boy’s smile even when he’s an old man, although David probably wouldn’t be able to see that – it’s been eight years since they’ve seen each other, who knows how long it would be until the next time. If there is a next time.

“Hey, you two can save the flirting for later,” Pepe says. “We should go if we’re going to make it to the stadium on time.” He artfully ignores the glares Fernando and David shoot him; years of being friends with them seem to have made him impervious to such expressions.

“We never make it on time.” Iker stands up and stretches. “We always get rushed by fans.”

“All the reason to get going earlier,” Pepe says. “Come on, Niño, you always get the most fans mobbing you, you should be running ahead of us.”

“How long are you going to call me that?” Fernando asks, making a face that only goes against him – David has seen middle school kids look more mature than that.

“Call you what, Niño?” Pepe asks innocently.

Fernando rolls his eyes again. He manages to exude _fuck off_ very clearly even though he doesn’t say a word.

“Okay, let’s go then.” David makes to head for the door, but he stops in his tracks as he remembers his car is low on gas, and he had meant to go to the gas station, but...his memory fails him too often lately. He isn’t that old, is he?

“What’s wrong?” Fernando asks quietly.

“I just remembered my car is almost out of gas.”

“You can come with me,” Fernando offers.

David is about to accept, but something stops the _sure_ from escaping his lips. Fernando looks at him, obviously waiting for a reply, and suddenly another memory comes to mind, of a hotel room and a younger, paler Fernando, looking at him in a similar yet completely different way.

“Okay, you two go together then,” Pepe says, oblivious to whatever is passing in the air between them. “It’ll save gas. Come on, let’s go.”

“See, you’re saving the environment now,” Fernando says with a teasing smile. Iker walks out first, and Fernando is at his heels. David stands there for a moment, his legs stiff and uncooperative. He realizes that Pepe’s looking at him with a soft yet shrewd expression.

“What is it?” he says, harsher than he intended.

“You haven’t kept in touch these past years,” Pepe says idly. “I emailed you a lot. Called you too, but you changed your phone number.”

Pepe doesn’t sound accusing, but David feels defensive anyway. “I changed phones. I guess I forgot to tell you my new number.”

“It’s not good to live in the past, but it’s not good to try to forget it all either.”

David narrows his eyes. “What are you really saying?”

“I’m saying – I just want you to be happy.” Pepe puts his hand on David’s shoulder; his grip is firm and solid, securing and secure. Maybe it’s all those years he spent as a goalkeeper. “It’s not too late, David.”

David is confused now. “Not too late for what?”

“To be happy,” Pepe says. “It’s never too late to be happy.”

David swallows; his throat is tight. “I am happy.”

“Sure,” Pepe says, and his voice is gentle now, indulging, like he’s talking to a child. David resents that; he’s far from a child, far from a guaje, now.

“I don’t need you to tell me how to live my life.”

“I’m not telling you how to live your life. I just – care.” Pepe looks rather frustrated now. “Or is that not allowed? You may have stopped wanting to be my friend, David, but I still want to be yours.”

The last part makes David falter. “I never stopped wanting to be your friend.”

“You wouldn’t even stay in touch,” Pepe says, looking pained.

“That doesn’t mean—” David swallows a breath. “I was going to call you, later, but I thought that it’s been so long...I thought it might be too late.”

“It’s not too late, David,” Pepe says. Then he grins again, and he’s boisterous, cheerful Pepe Reina again. “Someone else might hold a grudge against you for being such a douche, but I have such a large and generous heart that I’ll forgive you.”

David snorts, rolls his eyes. “Wow, thank you, Saint José.”

“I’m not a saint, I think you have me mixed up with Iker.” Pepe glances at his watch, and then the door. “Speaking of that, it seems that we’ve been left behind. We’d better catch up.” He heads off first, and when David isn’t behind him, he turns around and asks, “Aren’t you coming?”

David hesitates. “Pepe.”

“What?”

“Are you happy?”

“Yes...” Pepe says slowly. “I’m not the one you should be worried about.”

“I told you, I’m fine, I’m not a kid anymo—”

“Not you,” Pepe cuts him off. “I’m less worried about you than—” His face twists; his expression is beyond frustration. “Do both of you a favour, David, and get in that car before he thinks you’re not coming. I think you’ve kept him waiting long enough.”

Pepe doesn’t wait for him this time, he just walks out the door, and David falls back into his seat, his mind whirling, his heart heavy, sinking with eight years of weight.


	2. do you remember...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fernando is waiting by the entrance of the parking lot; a long, lean figure, backlit in the afternoon sunlight, his face thrown into shadow. His smile is small but bright when he catches sight of David.

Fernando is waiting by the entrance of the parking lot; a long, lean figure, backlit in the afternoon sunlight, his face thrown into shadow. His smile is small but bright when he catches sight of David.

“I almost thought you weren’t coming,” he says, hands tucked into his pockets, his relaxed posture a contrast to the tension in his shoulders, tension that is ebbing away with every step David takes towards him.

“Miss the game? Never.”

Fernando leads the way to his car, and David follows him, both of them silent.

“Nice car,” David says when he sees the silver Audi.

“I was going to get a new one, actually, but there’s nothing wrong with this. A few years doesn’t make it old.” Fernando unlocks the door and slips into the driver’s seat. He looks up at David; there are shadows cast over his face again, and they look pooled in his eyes, in the hollows under his cheekbones. David can’t read his expression at all. “Are you coming, or should I open your door for you?”

David opens the passenger door and slips in. The seats are leather and very comfortable. Fernando has one of those Christmas tree-shaped portable air fresheners, as red as their kits. If it has a scent, David doesn’t detect it.

They close their doors at the same time. Fernando buckles his seatbelt, and David remembers to do the same.

“Do you want to listen to anything?” Fernando asks, adjusting his rearview mirror.

“I’m good either way. You can put on something if you want.”

Fernando doesn’t turn on the radio. He puts his hands on the steering wheel, at ten and two, his grip rather tight, like the car is swerving out of control and he has to steer it to safety.

“Do you think we have a good chance?” he asks conversationally as he turns the car towards the exit.

“At what?”

Fernando gives him a strange look. “At the World Cup.”

“Oh.” David curses himself mentally. What else could Fernando have meant? “Yeah, I think we do. I mean, we’re not top favourites, but we can definitely win this thing.”

“You were right.” Fernando has his eyes on the road. He’s a steady driver, although a little on the fast side. At this rate, they would be at the stadium in no time.

“I usually am,” David says. “Which instance are we talking about?”

“We have a bright future,” Fernando says. “Well, it’s the present now, but – it’s bright. The kids have done well.”

 _You remember what I said?_ David thinks, but he doesn’t ask that, he can’t. It’s been eight years, and apparently he isn’t the only one who remembers that conversation all too clearly.

He smiles; it takes more effort than he thought. “Good thing this isn’t in Qatar, huh?”

“Would you have come, if it was?”

“I’m not sure if I could take the heat.”

Fernando glances at him. “That doesn’t sound like a very David Villa thing to say.”

David smiles slightly, at that. “How about you?” he asks. “Would you have come?”

“Probably, if a lot of the other guys came.” Fernando pauses. “I’ve missed everyone. It was – lonely after retiring.”

“Lonely,” David repeats. It’s a word, a feeling, he’s well-acquainted with.

“Besides, it’s hard to say no to Pepe.”

“That’s true,” David agrees. They share a quick smile. Fernando’s grip has loosened on the steering wheel.

“Fernando.”

“Yeah?”

David doesn’t know what to say. His tongue is clumsy, heavy in his mouth. It’s a lovely day, and they’re headed to the Mestella, a place full of memories for him, to watch their team (that’s what La Roja will always be to him, regardless of how long it’s been since he’s pulled on that shirt) play in the World Cup, and he should be excited, he should be happy. And he is, but—

“Are you still lonely?”

Fernando doesn’t look at him. “Why would I be? I’m surrounded by friends.”

“You know what I mean.”

“Do I?” Fernando murmurs. “I don’t think I do, David.”

“I don’t think I do either,” David admits.

They’re at a red light – the street is full of fans dressed in red, the Spanish flag waving around, people cheering and yelling. Even the red light at the intersection seems to be part of the crowd. David smiles at the sight; he remembers coming home, stepping off the plane and being bombarded by noise and pride and love.

“There are people looking at us,” Fernando says absently.

People have obviously recognized them. There are cameras and phones out, and people waving at them, ‘Villa’ and ‘Torres’ on their lips, the same look of affection still on their faces after all these years.

“There always are, isn’t there?” David smirks at him. “They can’t get enough of your face.”

Fernando snorts. “There are plenty of better faces to look at now.”

The light changes to green, and Fernando drives ahead. David can hear people yelling their names even through the closed windows.

“Del Rey,” Fernando says. “He’s pretty good, don’t you think?”

David blinks at the sudden mention of Spain’s #7, a product of Bilbao’s youth academy, a hot prospect at the tournament. Iker’s brought him up to David, mentioning how Madrid wants him, but Barça does too, as well as a bunch of other clubs. Del Rey has remained diplomatic on the situation, not giving away any preferences.

“He reminds me of you,” David says.

“Really?” Fernando raises his eyebrows. “He reminds me more of you.”

“Because of the shirt?”

“Because of the way he fights,” Fernando says. “He’s always hungry, and he never gives up.”

David absorbs Fernando’s description of him for a moment. He doesn’t think Fernando’s ever told him the kind of player he thinks he is. Not so directly, at least.

“Do you think he’ll score today?”

“I wouldn’t bet against him.”

“Hmm, betting reminds me of the pocha matches we had.”

Fernando laughs. “I remember you were terrible.”

“You weren’t so great yourself.”

“But you were always so competitive.” The teasing smile returns. “Sometimes I think you won just because you willed yourself to.”

“That would be an amazing power.”

“Do you remember the time Álvaro wanted to play strip pocha?”

David rolls his eyes. “He was just insane sometimes. I can’t believe…”

They continue chatting, light and relaxed and comfortable, exchanging “do you remember when…” and “how about the time…” David had almost forgotten a lot of anecdotes that Fernando brings up, but as they talk, it’s like the years roll back and they’re 7 and 9 of Spain again, the star-studded strikers of a golden generation.

“Fernando,” David says as they reach the stadium, one of Fernando’s hands on his seatbelt.

“What is it?” Fernando sounds cheerful, relaxed. Whatever tension had been between them had completely dissipated.

David hesitates. He doesn’t know what to say, or maybe he does, and he just doesn’t know how to say it. Is there a difference, really?

“Thanks for the ride.”

“It’s no problem.” Fernando’s mouth curves upward. It’s not a smile, not really.

“Are you happy?” David asks abruptly.

Fernando looks at him like he doesn’t understand the question. “What?”

“Are you happy?” David repeats, a little softer. “Pepe asked me today, and I…I don’t know, I wanted to ask you.”

Fernando’s face darkens. “Pepe should mind his own business.”

“You tell him that.”

“What did you say? When Pepe asked you that?”

David blinks. “I told him I am happy.”

“I would probably have told him the same,” Fernando says, and he takes his key out of the ignition and unbuckles his seatbelt. It’s a clear dismissal.

David gets out of the car and closes it gently behind him. The sound of the door closing is a muted thud, but somehow it’s louder than a slam.

Fernando doesn’t look at him, and David has to fight the urge to glance back at him as he walks away.

He realizes that neither of them actually admitted to being happy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So we all know that Qatar bribed FIFA to win the bid, and let's pretend here that FIFA investigated it - FIFA being righteous and listening to the voices of the people hahahaha - and Spain/Portugal, who also bid, get to host the WC instead. I just made Del Rey up - I like the name.


	3. then and now

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He has to stop, for a moment, at the first glance of the Mestella. Of course he can’t really see it since he hasn’t gone in yet, but just an outward glimpse is—
> 
> David can’t describe it as coming home, because that’s not what it is, but it is like stepping back into the past for a moment, his mind living in a memory while his feet are planted in the present.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter came out really smoothly, and I'm really quite proud of it (it's definitely my favourite so far), some of the lines just - came out very well. I guess I managed to tap into my drying fountain of football inspiration.
> 
> Also, unrelated to the story: congratulations to Germany! They are definitely deserved champions.

He has to stop, for a moment, at the first glance of the Mestella. Of course he can’t really see it since he hasn’t gone in yet, but just an outward glimpse is—

David can’t describe it as coming home, because that’s not what it is, but it is like stepping back into the past for a moment, his mind living in a memory while his feet are planted in the present.

He’s been back as an opponent, to defeat, to take from the team that meant more to him than all his later, better-paying ones, but never as a spectator. It’s a strange feeling. Since he retired, he’s only been to a handful of football games. They made him...he felt overly restless, overly energized, in his seat. He didn’t want to be in the stands, or on the sidelines, or on the bench – there was only one place in a stadium that he wanted to be, and that was the pitch. Watching and hoping were never enough for him.

That’s why when Xavi offhandedly mentioned that Barça’s youth team needed a manager one day, David told him that he wasn’t going to do it, so Xavi shouldn’t waste his breath. (And also, Xavi doesn’t seem to grasp that Barcelona isn’t to David what it is to Xavi, to Leo, to Cesc, even; it never has been, never will be.)

“Hey, are you just going to stand there all day?”

David snaps out of his thoughts. Fernando is raising an eyebrow at him, blonde hair windswept and dark eyes calm. The corner of his mouth quirks up a little. “Pepe would probably think I killed you and dumped your body off the highway.”

David snorts; it comes out as half a laugh. “Why would he think you killed me? Sure, you would have opportunity, but where’s the motive?”

Fernando shrugs. “Are you going or not? Do you have cold feet or something?”

“It’s not like I’m getting married.”

“It’s more like seeing an ex-wife happily married now, no?” Fernando gives him a sidelong glance, and then he’s walking away from David, towards the stadium.

“Fernando.”

Fernando doesn’t stop, but his pace slows, and David catches up with him. They look at each other for a moment, and Fernando says, slowly, like his tongue is weighed down by memories, “I felt the same way. When I went back to Anfield, after.”

David wonders whether Fernando means ‘after I left’ or ‘after I retired’. He remembers the wave upon wave of hate after Fernando left for Chelsea, followed by tide after tide of pressure, leaving Fernando tired and pale and wan, drowning in blue.

He also remembers turning on his TV one day and seeing Fernando’s last game for Chelsea, ironically at Anfield, and the enormous standing ovation he received when he was subbed off, the red shirts drowning out the blue.

When the camera caught the tears in Fernando’s eyes, David switched off the TV. He knew the feeling all too well, and anyway, he didn’t want to see Fernando cry again.

“Cheer up,” Fernando says, his voice soft. “It’s a happy time, isn’t it?”

“Yeah,” David says quietly. “It’s a happy time.”

After that, they walk silently, companionably. Fernando’s legs are longer, but David’s steps are brisker, and so they’re matched pace for pace, footstep for footstep. The sunlight halos Fernando’s blonde hair, turning it gold, washes warm and lazy over their faces. Clothes aside, they could have been walking through the tunnel together, toward the pitch, partners again.

 

Enthusiasm isn’t quite enough of a word to describe the fans’ reception. It’s almost like they’re the current players, like this is their match, their tournament to play. David has been retired for six years, but the hunger, the desire, they all linger beneath the surface of his skin, and he can feel them stir.

The grass looks short and slick, a green lighter than emerald, darker than envy. David remembers how it felt under his knees after a celebration, across his back after a tackle. He remembers the sound the ball made when it rippled the goal, the way the crowd would rise and seem to envelop them, the tightness in his chest when he glanced down at the crest above his heart and thought _this is the last time_.

It wasn’t, actually, when he thought that. Transfer rumours lingered around Valencia like thunderclouds, around him and Silva especially, the players who could fetch them the most money. Loyalty didn’t matter in the end; football is a business as much as it’s a sport, and businesses revolve around one thing.

Someone knocks their shoulder against his, jarring him from his thoughts. He seems lost in them more and more lately; maybe one day he wouldn’t be able to find his way out of them. Pepe was wrong; he didn’t forget his past, he remembers it all too well.

“You’re zoning off all the time,” Iker says. He had received an extra rapturous round of cheers; San Iker, their captain, who brought them three trophies in a magical four years. He taps David’s temple. “Everything okay in there?”

David half-heartedly bats his hand away. “Nothing you need to worry about.”

“God forbid I dare to worry about you, David,” Iker says with a chuckle that falls flat.

David doesn’t say anything, just returns his eyes to the pitch. He probably looks like he wants to project himself there. He doesn’t. He just...it’s strange, that’s all.

“The grass looks different than I remember,” Fernando murmurs from David’s other side. It felt like all the women in the stadium wanted an autograph, a picture, a longer look at their (former) Niño. Fernando had indulged a great number of them, signing hats and shirts and arms and, on one occasion, a baby’s head. He was still flexing his fingers now; they must be stiff. David didn’t have so much patience, and the Fernando he remembers didn’t either.

He supposes that this Fernando isn’t the one he remembers anymore.

Fernando is looking at him, waiting, not quite expectant. David clears his throat. “It suits one-touch passing better.”

“Yeah, tiki-taka isn’t as dead as they say, is it?” Fernando smiles, leans forward in his seat. The same anticipation, the same desire, is in his eyes when he looks at the pitch. They share that still.

Iker looks at both of them. “Do you think we’ll win?”

“This match?” Fernando asks. “Or the tournament?”

“Both.”

“It’s hard to say,” Fernando says, with the tone of someone familiar with disappointment. “We’ve been playing well, but we tend to stumble against fast counterattacking teams.”

“It’s a problem,” David agrees.

“At least we’re a lot better against set pieces now,” Fernando says.

David’s mouth curves up in the corner. “That’s because the team’s taller now.”

“Hey, Iker and I contributed just fine to the height department.”

David rolls his eyes. “Are you going to make fun of my height now? How old are you?”

Fernando’s smile darkens his face rather than brightens it. “Just two years younger than you.”

“Three, actually,” David corrects absently.

“Two, really, because your birthday is so late.”

There is nothing off, nothing out of place, about Fernando’s voice, but David feels a jolt at his words. He stares at Fernando, who’s still looking at the pitch, his eyes on the goal. As if feeling David’s eyes on him, he turns to David, eyebrows raised.

“What?”

“Two, then,” David says. His voice comes out quieter than he intended. He clears his throat again. “So, the match.”

“What about the match?”

“Do you think we’ll win?”

“What am I, the new Paul now?” Fernando sounds so light-hearted, so relaxed. David should be too; he doesn’t know why he isn’t. “It’s like you guys think I know the outcome.”

“I heard Germany has a psychic octopus again,” Iker says. David almost forgot about his presence, almost feels bad about it. “Everyone just calls it Paul the Second even though its name isn’t even Paul, and even if it was, it’d be Paul the Tenth or something. There have been so many Paul’s.”

“Any of them as accurate as the first?” David asks. He doesn’t really care about Paul the Octopus, but whatever. It’s common courtesy to continue a conversation. He’s gotten a lot better with common courtesy over the years.

“Probably not,” Fernando says. “The original is always the best, don’t you think?” He smiles again, that crinkly-eyed, boyish smile. David finds himself incapable of looking at it for long.

“There’s always that new generation surpassing the old saying,” David says. “It’s not a bad thing. Life is supposed to work that way.”

“Do you want someone to break your record then?” Fernando’s smile turns playful. “You know, Del Rey is climbing up the list.”

“You bring him up a lot. What are you, a fan?”

Fernando shrugs. “I told you. He reminds me of you.”

David really has to get his throat checked out; maybe he has laryngitis or something, it’s felt constricted or clogged so often lately.

“Do you want him to break my record?”

“Does it matter what I want?” Fernando’s voice is still very light. “It’s not like wanting can change anything.”

“I’m just asking you.”

Fernando makes a thoughtful sound. “I suppose it would be good for the team. But. Personally, I’d like for your record to stand a little longer.”

“You wanted to break it, didn’t you?”

“Of course I did,” Fernando says. “Who wouldn’t?”

David can’t help but feel rather smug. _But you couldn’t,_ he almost says. _You were the record-breaking Premier League signing, you were the golden boy, but I was the all-time leading goal scorer. I still am._

He doesn’t say that though. He’s grown past such petty cruelty.

Something else occurs to him. “You don’t want what’s good for the team?”

Fernando looks confused. “What?”

“It would be good for the team if Del Rey – or another player – scores so many goals. Don’t you want that?” David understands now. “Oh, you don’t want them to surpass your mark, right?” Fernando had managed to surpass Raul, albeit barely, and he sits second behind David on the list.

Eye movements are silent, of course, but Fernando somehow manages to roll his eyes very loudly. “Yeah, you got me there.” It’s amazing how much sarcasm five words can hold.

“Come on, guys,” Iker shushes them. “The game is going to start.”

The teams are coming out of the tunnel, two lines of bright colour, green and red. It reminds David of Christmas. He smiles, a little, as he watches Koke lead Spain out. He remembers when Koke was barely into his twenties, how strange the heavy beard he grew looked on him, like a kid playing dress up.

They were teammates for a brief but victorious year in Atlético, and how different their lives are now, Koke in his captain’s armband, David in the stands.

“It’s strange, isn’t it?” Iker says. “I remember when Morata was just a teenager, and there he is, the most senior striker on the team.”

“Makes you feel old,” Fernando murmurs.

“Hey, you’re the youngest one here,” David reminds him. “Stop with talk like that. You’ll make Iker feel bad.”

Iker snorts. “Not much has changed. You two are still the same.”

Fernando smiles. “Are we?” he asks, in a tone that suggests he disagrees.

“You bicker more than before,” Iker says thoughtfully. “Like a married couple, practically.”

Fernando makes a sound that could be a laugh, or. It’s probably a laugh. He smiles that darkening smile again. “The anthem is starting.”

They stand up, along with most of the stadium. Out of habit, David tilts his head up, raises his eyes to the sky. In his peripheral vision, he can see Fernando and Iker do the same. Old habits die hard.

The sky is a brilliant, blinding blue above them, like a velvet curtain without any clouds to obscure the scene. It almost hurts to look at it, but David does, fights the urge to shield his eyes or glance away.

The last notes of the anthem die away, but they don’t sit down immediately, united by something beyond patriotism or nostalgia, something that has endured all these years, even after they took off their kits and hung up their boots.

Fernando sits down first, his movements slow, weighed down. David knows the feeling, relives it as he takes a seat as well. Iker is the last of them to sit, and as his eyes drift over the crowd, the pitch, David wonders what he’s seeing, if he’s seeing the same thing David is, numerous pitches bleeding together into three.

“Where are Sara and the kids?” David asks.

“Sara says she’s had enough of football for a while,” Iker says with a faint smile. “Martín is sick, and Lana has a tea party with her dolls.”

“She’s had enough of football,” David repeats. “She does realize who she’s married to, right?”

Iker shrugs. “Maybe that’s why she’s had enough of football.”

“What about you?” Fernando asks. “Will you ever have enough of it?”

“Will any of us?” Iker counters.

It’s a good question. David learned how to kick a ball not long after he learned to run. He went to sleep clutching either his toy football or world cup; he woke up thinking about football, and he spent the day scheduling his activities around it. That was before he officially joined a team. Then...

Their lives were football. They breathed, thought, dreamed, lived football. And then retirement came, like the lid of a coffin snapping shut. Sometimes David thinks he doesn’t have much of a life, he isn’t really living, he’s just wandering around finding more things to fill his grave with.

“It’s tiring.” David’s voice almost surprises himself. “It was tiring when it was there, and it’s tiring now that it’s not.”

Fernando makes an acquiescent humming sound. “We’re retired,” he says. “Re-tired. Tired again.”

David doesn’t know what to say to that. Spain kicks off, and the ball ends up all the way back to de Gea. He kicks it upfield, and Koke manages to get a boot to it, chests it down and weaves past two defenders. Morata and Del Rey are both alert, just waiting for the right pass. Morata is a tall, lean figure, dark hair cropped shirt; Del Rey is shorter, slighter; their numbers, 9 and 7, gleam proud and gold on the back of their crimson shirts.

It’s like looking into a funhouse mirror, seeing your reflection distorted but still recognizable.

“Do you remember when we were in their place?” Fernando asks, as if reading his mind.

“It’s been a long time.” David’s voice comes out distant, like it, too, is affected by the years.

“Not that long.”

“Yes, I remember.”

Del Rey makes a darting run, sidestepping a defender before swinging a cross into the box. Morata gets up well, but he is a whisper from reaching it, and the ball goes out harmlessly for a goal kick.

A swell of groans rises around the stadium.

“It’s been a long time,” David repeats. “Sometimes I feel like my memory fails me.”

“That’s what memories do,” Fernando says. “They fade.”

The goal kick isn’t a good one, and Spain gets the ball again, but Deulofeu is fouled before he can reach the eighteen-yard box. Three red shirts stand over the ball, three dark heads bent over it.

“We’re playing well,” David says, not surprised or relieved. He had expected nothing less.

“Of course we are.” The pride in Fernando’s voice mirrors what David feels. “We’re Spain.”

The way Fernando says it – like it’s a simple fact, like there’s no other explanation needed because that’s what it comes down to: we’re Spain and we’re great – makes David smile.

“We’re Spain,” he agrees, and they continue watching the match, watching their team, together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is all I've got, guys, so I don't know when the next chapter will be. I have a tendency to write fic at work (actually, I wrote most of this fic at the office), so we'll have to see how bored I get, I guess.


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